


Endlessly Drowning

by strawberrykait



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post - Deathly Hallows, Psychological Trauma, References to Hamlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-17 01:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2291981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrykait/pseuds/strawberrykait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love… remember.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endlessly Drowning

**Author's Note:**

> I’d like to thank my wonderful beta, McCargi, who always saves my bum!

He comes every day, without fail.

Sometimes, like today, he brings flowers, despite knowing she never really seems them. She never even sees him. Hermione had never openly disliked any flower, save roses. She said roses smelled too much like death; that roses were for funerals, and so he has never once brought roses. He always tries to please her, now more than ever.

“Look what I have for you,” Draco murmurs when he finally reaches her, offering a small, trembling smile. Hermione lies motionless, her face turned away. Her whisky-coloured eyes dance about frantically — the only indication that she is still in there. The vase beside her bed still holds yesterday’s flowers, which had yet to wilt. Mechanically, Draco tosses the old bouquet in the bin and replaces them with four bright yellow sunflowers. He’d chosen them for their cheerfulness; however, looking about the Janus Thickey Ward, Draco reconsiders his choice. He takes his place next to her bed and whispers her name again and again.

After a moment, her head rolls toward him and he smiles. “There’s my girl,” Draco whispers. Hermione’s eyes wildly search, landing at last on the discarded flowers. Although she doesn’t smile back, there is a difference in her eyes, an awareness that wasn’t there before. Hermione’s lips are moving, so he leans down to listen.

“…there's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember…”

The smile crumbles as he reaches for her limp hand. The moment his fingers touch hers, Hermione bolts up from her bed, wailing and thrashing. Her eyes are enormous, frightened as her legs tangle within her bedding. Her crying is hysterical. Draco steps away, familiar with this routine. Soon, two female Healers scurry into the ward, each using her wand to restrain Hermione, casting a silencing charm on her. It takes both to restrain her, which always surprises Draco, considering how halcyon she usually appeared. He never interferes with the Healers or opposes whatever methods they deem necessary to restrain her. He does, however, regret how quickly they are on task, since these outbursts of Hermione’s are the only time she ever responds to him anymore.

When she has been restrained and sedated, Hermione lies down again in her bed, her drooping eyes staring up at the celling. Even then, she still doesn’t look at him. Draco laughs humourlessly. He doesn’t try to touch her again. Instead, Draco charms the brush from her bedside table and slowly, gently begins brushing through her long, wavy hair.

Sometimes—on her better days— he talks to her. Nothing of any real significance: changes in the weather, Quidditch scores, or tells her about the latest titles lining the windows of Flourish and Blotts. Nothing ever draws her out, though. Even so, Draco comes to see her every day, and every day the hope that blossoms in his heart wilts a little more.

He never brings up the lake, not under any circumstance, although he’s spent endless days and nights deliberating why Hermione would attempt to end her life. Hadn’t they had a good life together? Thank Merlin he found her and she was still alive. Within his breast pocket he keeps the tatty velvet box as a reminder, a small beacon of hope that someday… someday, she’ll come back to him. His love for her never wilts.

※❀※

Perhaps once a month, sometimes less frequently, she visits St. Mungo’s. Occasionally, she sees Draco, yet she knows to keep her distance. Unlike her son, Narcissa never brings flowers for the imbecile girl he unfortunately loves. Narcissa never enters the ward, choosing instead to look through the rectangular window, keeping a safe distance.

There is nothing to be done; it simply is what it is. Besides, what more could the troublesome Mudblood do to destroy her family? Narcissa disliked reflecting on such matters where the Mudblood was concerned.

Peeking through the little window, she pursed her lips. Draco sat next to the imbecile, attempting to magically comb through the rat’s nest atop that Mudblood’s head. It truly baffled her, what her son could possibly see in such a low-born creature as that Granger girl. Years ago, she was nothing more than an upstart clinging to Harry Potter, exploiting that awful boy’s notoriety in order to jump ranks, ultimately ensnaring her only child. She was a walking—and, unfortunately, _talking_ —insult to their family. How could Narcissa possibly allow that… _girl_ … to sully their Pure-blood line? At least it was Narcissa and not Lucius who had discovered her treachery. A tickle at the back of her throat nearly exposes Narcissa in her hiding place, choking her, stealing the breath away. Narcissa knows there are worse ways to die, but imagines in that second what drowning must be like.

The Mudblood was convulsing, her back arching impossibly. At least the Silencio still held. Narcissa watched her son pull back, allowing the Healers to restrain the vicious creature. She noticed that his eyes never wavered from the wild girl, not even as he wiped away his tears.

Often, Narcissa wished she had told Lucius what their son had planned, how together he and his Mudblood whore would have extinguished their family line. Lucius would have put a swift end to it. She felt certain his method would have been much easier than her disastrous attempt to eradicate her son from the Mudblood’s mind. She had only hesitated for one second… just one second. Narcissa wished she had simply killed the Mudblood rather than torturing her. Had she only known that discarding the nuisance in the lake would prove insufficient, she would have found another way. If only she could Obliviate her darling, then all their suffering would be at an end. 

_Oh, but if wishes were Thestrals…_


End file.
